
PS 635 
. Z9 
R536 
Copy 1 


The Fever Ward 

Price, 25 Cents 



WALTER H. BAKER COMPANY 

BOSTON 









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The Fever Ward 


A Comedy in One Act 


By 

FRANZ RICKABY 


NOTICE 

This play is published for free performance by amateurs only. 
Professional companies are forbidden the use of it in any form or 
under any title, without the consent of the author, who may be 
addressed in care of the publishers. 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER COMPANY 

1923 





The Fever Ward 


CHARACTERS 


Hilda, a maid , aged eighteen. 

Marion Crewe, a nurse, aged twenty-five. 

Frank Marx, a patient, a teacher of English, aged thirty - two . 
Arthur Redding, a patient, a rich man s son, aged thirty - one . 
John Campbell, an ex-service man, aged twenty-five. 

Dr. Charles Introwitz, the interne. 

Scene. —Room Three in Dr. Sundberg’s Guernsey Sanitorium. 
Time. —A forenoon, not so long ago. 



Copyright, 1923, by Franz Rickaby 


All rights reserved 



TMP96-007125 



To 

Some Erstwhile Associates of Mine 
Who , Though Now Widely Scattered,\ 
Will Recognize in These Pages 
Not Only Their Names 
But 

Much Else With Which They 
Are Familiar 


FEB 14 1923 


The Fever Ward 


SCENE .—Room Three in the Guernsey Sanitorium is a 
bright, clean-looking room, well lighted by two win¬ 
dows in the wall facing us, and containing the usual 
furniture found in a place of this type: a white iron 
hospital-bed at the right (the actor's right) well toward 
the front, and near it at the head a small white table-, 
covered by a scarf, on which are an opened book lying 
face down, a small clock, and a round tray holding 
several medium-sized tall thin glasses and a quart bot¬ 
tle slightly more than half full of milk. The shelf 
beneath is piled with newspapers and magazines in 
considerable disorder. 

In the left wall, opposite the foot of the bed, is the only 
door we see; and between this and the foot of the bed 
stands a large and hospitable looking rocking-chair with 
wide arms and cane back and seat. In the upper left 
corner of the room is a low white bureau with three 
wide drawers, supporting a high and rather narrow 
mirror, and against the wall between the windows 
stands a straight chair which matches the bureau and 
the little table. The rocking-chair apparently belongs 
to another breed. 

Between the bed and the rear wall there might be a 
generous gilded radiator, but as the season seems not 
to need it we shall gain the undying gratitude of the 
property man by leaving it unnoticed. We should 
notice, however, two small rugs: a narrow one before 
the bed, and a somewhat wider one beneath the hos¬ 
pitable looking rocking-chair. 


5 



6 THE FEVER WARD 

On the head of the bed is clamped an electric light for 
reading, and the wire of the call-bell is also draped 
there, the button hanging conveniently. 

(As the curtain rises the occupant of the room, Frank 
Marx, is lying on the bed, which has been freshly 
made up. He looks very little like a “ patient.” In 
fact, none of the patients in this story do look that 
way. He is pink and rosy, and apparently in excel¬ 
lent physical condition. “ The picture of health,” 
the bromides would say. He is, according to all the 
known conventions of the Sanitorium, dressed for 
company. Over a suit of pajamas (which has been 
morning, noon, and evening dress, formal and in¬ 
formal, fpr him for six weeks) he now wears a gen¬ 
erous blue bathrobe, and is shod in socks and a pair 
of felt bedroom slippers. As we see Marx here, 
there is nothing about him that would surely mark 
him as a university professor. He might be an auto¬ 
mobile salesman; indeed, a great many people have 
told him that he ought to be in the “ money game ” 
somewhere. His vocabulary and style of speech 
alone betray him , except for certain moments here¬ 
inafter to be noted, during which his tongue forgets 
its cunning and he becomes as the rest of us. For 
a moment after the curtain is up, Marx lies, faith¬ 
fully “relaxed,” according to the Doctor's instruc¬ 
tions. He moves, and the movement resolves itself 
into a long stretch, concluded by a comfortable “ Ho- 
hum!” Then he reaches down beneath the table 
and takes up his “ cannon-ball,” a five or six-pound 
iron ball, which he rolls slowly about on his abdomen 
with vari-colored gruntings and catchings of breath.) 

Marx (pausing an instant). Thank the Lord, to-day 
is the last of this! (After perhaps a quarter of a minute 

of the massage, all told, he glances at his clock.) Um! 
Time for milk. (He lowers the ball toward the floor, 
letting it fall the last five inches or so, for our fuller 
edification, draws himself into a semi-reclining position, 


THE FEVER WARD J 

pours himself a glass of milk, and is drinking it slowly 
when there is a light knock on his door.) Come on. 

(Enter Hilda.) 

Hilda. Bon jour, Monsieur. 

(Hilda is French-American, of the second generation; 
very pretty by reason of black hair, large, brown, 
and very expressive eyes, enticing red lips, and pink- 
and-red complexion She is, however, of the large 
rather than the petite type. She wears a fresh blue 
cover-all apron, stylishly brief as to sleeve and skirt, 
and boasting a large bow at the back, and balances 
herself in a pair of high-heeled pumps. She brings 
in a carpet-sweeper, a dustless mop, and a dust-rag, 
depositing them all against the wall just inside the 
door. She uses them successively during the fol¬ 
lowing scene, wielding the sweeper first, running it 
haphazardly but perhaps not ineffectively over the 
rugs; then the mop, dipping and brushing about the 
uncovered portions of the floor; then the rag, on 
furniture, window-sill, etc. Hilda is a lover of 
badinage, and where cleaning interferes with con¬ 
versation, the former gives way always.) 

Marx. Oh, that’s right. I should have said, “ Entray 
voo, Mademuzelle.” Ness paa? 

I-Iilda (her eyes working overtime). Oui, Monsieur. 
Ici on ne parle que francais. Hein? Comment allez vous 
ce matin? 

Marx (zvhose moving-van accent has revealed that he 

is far from the manner born). Commong- How 

was that? That isn’t what you have been saying to me 
all these mornings. Let me see—it was, “ Commong 
voo-” 

Hilda (laughing like rippling water). Oui? Was it, 
“ Comment vous portez vous ” ? 

Marx (finishing his milk). That’s it. I can answer 
that for you: I’m feeling fine this morning. How are 
you ? 

Hilda ( lightly , at her labors). As usual. 




8 


THE FEVER WARD 


Marx ( admiring her). You are a little prettier than 
usual, I think. (Hilda answers only with one of her 
special glances. There is a slight pause in the conversa¬ 
tion as she gives the rugs their lick and promise.) You 
are going to be glad enough when you are through clean¬ 
ing up after me, aren’t you ? 

Hilda. Oh, you haven’t been any trouble. Your 
room’s always the cleanest of the lot. There’ll sure be 
someone worse come in your place. 

Marx. For a Frenchman you speak pretty good blar¬ 
ney. But we will miss our little visit every morning, 
won’t we? 

Hilda {resting). Will we! I certainly hate to see 
you go, Mr. Marx,—you and Mr. Campbell. It’s so sel¬ 
dom young men come here. 

Marx. If they knew what milk could do for them, 
there would be lots more of them here. And if they 
knew you were here, they would all come. 

Hilda {busy again). Well, I wish they knew it! 
(Marx laughs heartily at this , as Hilda gives the sweeper 
a final flourish or two: then getting her mop.) But then, 
Art’ll be here, and I guess he’ll keep the undertaker away 
for a while yet. 

Marx. I’m sorry, Hilda, but Art is leaving to-morrow 
morning too; he decided last night. 

Hilda {the mop rests). He is! Why, he hasn’t been 
here six weeks! 

Marx. I know. But he has been here five; and he 
thinks he hears something calling him away. I don’t 
know what it is. I’m sure it isn’t work that is calling 
him.—I’ll tell you: maybe he feels as you do about this 
place after Campbell and I have gone. 

Hilda {vexedly. The mop goes to work). My! I 
wish I could up and leave whenever I got ready. {More 
brightly.) But Mr. Campbell told me yesterday I could 
come and keep house for him. 

Marx. That strikes me as being a very natural thing 
to tell you. I’ve thought of telling you that several times 
myself. But then, if Jack Campbell said it, that will be 
just as good. Are you going to accept his proposition? 


THE FEVER WARD 9 

Hilda. Non, Monsieur. ( The mop rests.) You see, 
I’m afraid I’d be too jealous all the time. 

Marx. Jealous? Who of? 

Hilda ( with a delicious little shrug). How do I 
know? ( The m,op goes to work.) 

Marx. Oh, no! I’ll vouch for Jack any day—or 
night either. 

Hilda (with arched brows, as the mop hesitates). 
You? And who would vouch for you? 

Marx. Vouch for me! 

Hilda. Yes; vouch for you. 

Marx. Why, I suppose if I had to be vouched for, 
Art would do that much for me. 

Hilda (with laughter like a fountain in the sun). 
Arthur Redding? He vouch for anybody? Pouf ! He’s 
the worst of the three. 

(The mop goes to work vigorously.) 

Marx (rather taken back, or at least acting as though 
he were). Well—say! What has gone on around here 
to give honest men reputations like this? 

Hilda (again that shrug). I don’t know. (Grimly.) 
But I do know that if my man ever looked at another 
woman like Mr. Campbell—and you too—look at Miss 
Crewe, I’d be crazy jealous. (She puts the mop back 
beside the sweeper, takes up the dust-rag and goes to¬ 
ward the windows. There she turns to speak.) But if 
he ever looked at another woman the way Mr. Art Red¬ 
ding looks at Miss Crewe, I’d (With feigned fierceness.) 
poison him! (She dusts the window-sills.) 

Marx. How interesting! But I should like to ask, 
what about you? You have done lots of looking here and 
there since I’ve known you. Would you be perfectly 
safe on that score yourself? 

Hilda (her eyes and smile saying more than her 
words). That’s something else again. 

Marx. I thought so. (A knock at the door. Marx 
shouts.) Too much noise out there! Come on in. 
(Enter John Campbell, possibly the best-looking man 
of those in our little play,—depending upon the judge! 


10 


THE FEVER WARD 


He is the ex-soldier, rather slight of build, and carries 
himself in a way to remind one of the witticism (if he has 
heard it!) that whereas the British soldier went about 
France as though lie owned the country, the American 
soldier went about it as though he didn’t give a snap who 
owned it. His eyes reflect absolute candor and fearless¬ 
ness, and his lips, though not unpleasant, seem the sort 
which do not smile too often. As has been indicated 
earlier, he radiates the same sort of healthy glow already 
noted in Marx : a sort of Exhibit B for the potency of 
the milk diet. He is dressed as Marx is, except for 
slight variations in the cut and color of his garments. 
Hilda dusts busily.) Hello, Jack! Come in. Have a 
chair. 

Jack. Top o’ the morning, Marx. Oh, here’s our 
Hilda. What a busy little worker we’ve got—when 
somebody steps in! 

(He pulls the rocking-chair around and sits in it, ar¬ 
ranging his bathrobe snugly.) 

Hilda (not stopping). I’m always busy. 

Jack. That’s right too. But I wish someone ’ud scout 
around and find out how it is that in my room, half again 
as big as this one, you’re done and gone in about five 
minutes, while in this wop’s room you hang around as 
long as Jacob did for Rachel, which accordin’ to the law 
and the prophets, was fourteen years.—How do you man¬ 
age it, Marx? 

Marx. Oh, easy. I speak in advance. 

Hilda (in mock defense). Well—if you could just 
see this room! I don’t know what he does in here. It’s 
the dirtiest room in the house. 

(A roguish glance at the maligned Marx.) 

Jack. That’s what you say. 

Hilda (preparing to leave). Sure that’s what I say. 
That s what I said about your room too when Mr. Red¬ 
ding asked me why it took me so much longer in there 
than it did in his. 


THE FEVER WARD 


II 


{And with a final smile , one of her best , she is gone.) 

Jack. That lamb rolls a wicked eye, don’t she? 

Marx {smiling). Sometimes.—Have you weighed 

yourself to-day? 

Jack. No. Have you? 

Marx. Not yet. I haven’t been out of my room this 
morning. I’m taking a good rest before we go. 

Jack. That’s right. 

Marx. How much milk have you drunk? 

Jack. I’m on my third. What’s your score? 

Marx {indicating the bottle on the table). That is 
only my second. But I drank seven yesterday. 

Jack. And still alive!—Well, believe me, I’m going 
to tell this house I want a tray to-night with a pile of 
solid food on it. If we’re going to steam out to-morrow, 
we’ve got to have it. 

Marx. I suppose so.—I rather hate to go, don’t you ? 

Jack. I’ve just been thinking about that. The old 
joint’s got a string on me somewhere. I can’t see why 
it should have, though. If I was going to endear my¬ 
self to anybody, the last thing I’d do would be to put 
’em to bed and feed ’em nothing but Guernsey milk and 
prunes. 

Marx. You can be pretty sure the diet isn’t respon¬ 
sible for it, Jack. It’s something a little more personal 
than milk and prunes. One gets to feel as though he 
belonged here somehow. Diet won’t do that, I don’t 
care what kind of diet it is. 

Jack. Whatever it is, it sure works a fellow up 
mighty close to affection. 

{There is a peremptory knock at the door, which opens 
immediately, before anyone can invite, to admit 
Arthur Redding. He is a man of the darker type, 
with a small and carefully trimmed mustache; is 
considerably larger than the other two, faintly in¬ 
clined toward portliness. He is plainly accustomed 
to the lap of luxury. His manner of speech is not 
quite a drawl , but it well becomes his easy-going 
style of architecture. He is dressed in the main as 


12 


THE FEVER WARD 


the others are, and as for complexion and general ap¬ 
pearance might well he labeled Exhibit C.) 

Art. (shutting the door). ’Morning, boys. 

Jack. Advance, friend- 

Marx. Hello, Art. Draw up the chair and join in. 

(Arthur pulls the straight chair closer to the bed, and 
lowers himself into it.) 

Jack. Been up visiting “ Room io” yet to-day? 

Art. Visiting “Room io”? This early in the day? 
Think I am a lark ? 

Marx (laughing). Hardly a lark, Art. More like a 
wee little wren. 

Jack. Ain’t it, though! What did the scales say this 
morning, elephant? 

Art. Hundred an’ eighty-seven in the shade. Good 
thing I’m pulling out of this place. 

Jack. Fifteen pounds in five weeks. Not so worse, 
for a light eater. 

Art. Wish it wasn’t so much. Have a little reason 
for sticking around a while longer. Not a bad place ’t 
all—when you come to leave it. 

Marx. That is exactly what Jack and I were saying 
before you came in. 

Art. Doesn’t change the fact any. 

Marx. Of course it doesn’t. But how do you account 
for it? 

Art. Got me. 

Marx (as one who discovers a nugget). I’ll tell you: 
I think it is largely ourselves—we three here. I don’t 
know how you boys feel, but I’m going to miss you two 
after we break up. 

Jack (sympathetically). Somethin’ to that, Marx. 
You ain’t alone on that. Not exactly sob stuff, I guess, 
but- 

(He doesn’t finish. Arthur is nodding affirmatively. 
Why should he speak when the others are speaking 
for himf) 


THE FEVER WARD 


J 3 


Marx. Here we are, from three of the four corners 
of the earth practically. Two months ago we never knew 

of each other. And now- ( A pause.) I feel a lot 

more deeply indebted to you fellows than I could ever 
say. I feel that life-friendship is the only possible way 
to repay such debts. What do you say? 

Jack {emphatically). I’m favor’ble. 

Marx. What do you think, Art? 

Art. {as earnest as he ever gets to be). Great idea. 
I’m for it. 

Marx. Good! Shake hands on it. 

{They all shake hands , soberly and with great sin¬ 
cerity, and are seated again.) 

Jack. I guess we’ve given the old shack a taste of 
life since we’ve been here. Maybe they’ll hate to see us 
go about as bad as we hate to go. 

Marx. Well, Hilda hates to see us go anyway. She 
told me she did. 

Art. Hilda! Sweet cookie! 

Marx {to Arthur). Careful, boy! You are step¬ 
ping on Jack’s affections. She told me he said she could 
come and keep house for him. 

Jack. Did she say that? 

Marx. Never mind her. Did you say it? 

Jack. Not much. I haven’t any house to keep. She 
told me Art said that to her. 

Marx. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Did you, Art? 

Art. Why not? You did. Said you did, anyway. 

Marx {sobering). What? The little devil! I didn’t 
—why, I never thought of such a thing. 

Jack {suspiciously). That stuff’s easy to say without 
thinking it. 

Marx {bravado!). See here! I’ll be bold enough to 
say in this presence that if I were looking for a house¬ 
keeper, there is another woman around here I should ask 
first. 

{Exactly the sentiment of the other two! And the 
sudden expression of it seems like a rude thrust on 
a sensitive spot.) 



THE FEVER WARD 


14 

Jack ( meditatively, after a brief silence ). Ain’t it, 
though! She’s a real nurse, that woman. 

Marx ( very matter-of-fact, concealing all the warmth 
he feels). Yes; and she is different from the ordinary 
run of nurses, you’ll find. She is remarkable, I think, 
for her efficiency and her—well—tenderness is about the 
only word for it. 

Art. (unconsciously fetches a deep sigh, and speaks 
with the unhappy phraseology and expression so common 
to large men who are in love). She sure is gentle. 

Jack. Come right down to it, I guess she’s—the- 

(His appraisal dwindles out for want of words, and 
the trio finds itself immersed in a silence which each 
devoutly wishes he could dispel. But the thoughts 
dominant just now seem not to be the ones with 
which to dispel it. Finally Arthur, traversing a 
devious train of thought, arrives at this.) 

Art. (stirring and extending his arms in a plainly ar¬ 
tificial stretch accompanied by as plainly an artificial 
yawn). Well—I can’t get fired up over leaving tomor¬ 
row. 

Jack (the spell broken). Here either. (Looks at a 
watch which he has in his bathrobe pocket.) I got to get 
back by my milk-bottle. I’m almost due for a glass. 

Marx. No need hurrying off for that. Have some of 
mine. I shall be only too glad to get rid of it. 

Jack. Not to-day. I got my own to drink up. (On 
his way to the door.) See you later. 

Marx. Hurry back. (Jack is just about to open the 
door when there is a staccato of raps on it. Jack opens 
the door as Marx calls out.) Come on ! (Enter Marion 
Crewe. She warrants easily all that has just been said 
and thought of her. She wears, of course, the white 
uniform of her profession, and from cap to toe pro¬ 
claims cleanliness, neatness, deftness, and abounding 
health of mind and body. Eyes, lips, and teeth are all 
such as might move even a man like Arthur to think 
Elizabethan lovers’ conceits, if not to express them. Be- 



THE FEVER WARD 


15 


neath a bright vivacity, which is never in any sense 
frivolity , there is depth and strength of character and 
sureness of purpose, and she seems to radiate a quiet 
and healing calm, the one best attribute of the true nurse. 
And finally, when she speaks, she is seen to possess that 

excellent thing in woman,” a voice “ever soft, gentle 
and low.” As this apparition appears, Jack bows her 
in, somewhat awkwardly, Arthur rises, and all three 
drink in her glories in their several styles and modes of 
adoration, the main visible common attribute of which is 
a beaming smile. Only Marx manages to speak.) En¬ 
ter, goddess. 

Mar. (smiling full upon them). Oh, I see. All the 
deserters having a farewell session. (She goes directly 
across to the bureau and takes up Marx’s chart, on 
which, during the next few speeches, she transcribes some 
data from a small slip of paper.) Dr. Introwitz said 
he was going to your room next, Mr. Redding. He 
wishes to see you especially this morning. 

Marx. It’s too bad to break up this meeting, nurse. 
We were just trying to devise some scheme to get to stay 
a while longer. 

(Marion flashes a pearly smile at the glorified group 
as Marx speaks, and continues her transcribing as 
she replies.) 

Mar. It oughtn’t to take three bright men very long 
to scheme that much. All you have to do is to stay— 
and agree to drink milk. Isn’t it? 

(She puts down the chart and turns toward the men, 
deftly placing her pencil in her hair.) 

Jack {dolefully). Ain’t it, though! But I got to get 
out and sell some insurance. Too many men dying with¬ 
out any. 

Mar. {glances at her watch. To Jack). And while 
I’m speaking of drinking milk, it’s time for you to drink 
some now, Mr. Campbell. I poured you a nice fresh 


i6 


THE FEVER WARD 


glassful when I was in your room, and put a new quart 
on your table. 

Jack {starting dutifully). Oh, did you? Thanks. I 
was just going for a glass when you came in. [Exit. 

Marx. Staying on and drinking milk sounds simple 
enough, but I am like Campbell: I have to get back to 
work to pay for what I have already drunk. 

Mar. So you’re not like Mr. Redding: just leaving 
because you’re tired of us? 

Art. {valiantly). Not my reason at all- 

Mar. ( continuing , to Marx). He’s even leaving a 
week early, you see. 

Art. {torn between his last night's decision and a 
newer desire). Don’t know how near I am to changing 
my mind, either. 

Mar. {smiling on him). That would be so nice! 

Art. Haven’t got quite the same reason for leaving 
Marx has mebbe. But truth is, I’m well. Lost all the 
ailments ever had. Can’t stay in hospital nothin’ the 
matter with me—can I? 

Mar. No, of course not. If you insist on getting 
well, you’ll have to suffer the consequences. 

Art. {suddenly) . Well—guess go see what Doc. has 
to say. {Going.) ’Scuse me, won’t you? 

Marx. Sure. Hurry back. 

Art. {seriously, pausing as he opens the door, without 
looking back). May change my mind yet. [Exit. 

Marx {grimly). He may, too, doggone him. 

Mar. {coming over toward the little table. Marx’s 
eyes follow her). It wouldn’t hurt him any. 

Marx. Maybe not. But it might hurt some of the 
rest of us like everything. 

Mar. {pours the rest of the milk from the bottle into 
the glass). I’ll bring you some more milk before I go. 

Marx {worshipfully). I wish you would. (Marion 
takes the empty bottle and steps outside, leaving the door 
open. She returns instantly, closing the door as she re¬ 
enters, bringing a full bottle which she places on the 
tray. Marx has visibly primed himself to speak, but 
words evidently won't come, for he manages to call out , 



THE FEVER WARD 


17 


rather ungracefully for a teacher of expression, just as 
Marion is about to open the door and leave.) Say! 
Miss Crewe- 

Mar. ( turning). Yes? 

Marx. There is something—I wonder- Are you 

busy now ? 

Mar. No; I was just going down to my room. I’m 
through until someone wants me. 

Marx. Well—I—somebody wants you now, I guess. 

Mar. (innocently) . Oh, is that so? Who? 

Marx ( traitor to his profession). Me. 

Mar. (that smile!). Then it’s lucky Fm here, isn’t it? 
What is it you want? 

Marx (with couraqe). I want- (A pause.) 

Mar. Well? 

Marx (still retreating in spirit). I —could you stay in 
here a few minutes? I just want to talk—say something, 
that is—just talk a while. 

(He wipes his brow with his handkerchief.) 

Mar. (making as though to sit in the rocking-chair). 
Why, of course- 

Marx. Say—if you wouldn’t mind, of course— 
would you just as soon sit- 

(He has sidled generously over on his bed, and in¬ 
dicates a place toward the foot, on the side toward 
us. Marion sits there, leaning lightly on the end of 
the bed, half facing him as he reclines against his 
stacked pillows. This arrangement achieved, it 
would seem that Marx’s conversation should com¬ 
mence; but it doesn't.) 

Mar. (leading out). Did I understand you to say that 
you wished to talk to me? 

Marx. Yes— I - (He smiles gorgeously instead.) 

Mar. Here I am. 

Marx. Yes, I see you. (Looking miserably out the 
window.) Holy smoke ! I had this all planned, what to 
say—but it won’t—I can’t- 




i8 


THE FEVER WARD 


Mar. Planned ? Why, you’ve been talking to me now 
for six weeks without any trouble. 

Marx. Yes,—yes, I know. I know that, but just 

now, somehow- {Suddenly.) I can’t say what I 

want to say to you. That is—hang it! 

Mar. {much enlightened). Oh. {She marks a little 
pattern on the hed-spread with her finger.) What is it 
you wish to say? 

Marx. Why—I want to tell you that I love you- 

Mar. There now; you’ve said it, haven’t you? 

Marx {brightening) . Yes, I have, M-Marion. And I 
never meant anything so much in all my life- 

Mar. Nothing? 

Marx. Nothing in my whole life. Those fellows 
wondering why they hate to leave this place. I know 
why I hate to leave it. It’s you I hate to leave. 

Mar. {as one being wooed). I have seen how you felt. 

Marx. Did you—really now? Do you—that is, now 
—are you glad that I—that I feel this way about you, 
Marion ? 

Mar. {meeting his eyes steadily). Yes; I am very 
happy for that. 

Marx {in ecstasy). Marion!—Listen. When you 
came into my room every morning, I—just brightened 
up—the whole place did too—just like the sun shining 
in somewhere. And to have you around—or just your 
voice, Marion, it was soothing as a—oh, a flower of some 
sort.—I don’t know—and your footsteps too—I could 
tell them, Marion, all over the house. ( Appealing , as 
though he didn't know he deserved what he asks!) I 
wish I deserved this thing—maybe then it wouldn’t be 
so hard to ask- 

Mar. {quietly). Why not ask, and let me decide 
whether you deserve it ? 

Marx {encouraged). I want a lot, you see. I want 
you to make me happy. I’m going away to-morrow— 
Art’s going away too, you know—we’re all going away. 

Mar. Yes; I’ve been thinking about that. 

Marx. I guess it’s going to be lonely. But, Marion, 
I want to come back again in here — that is, not to be 






THE FEVER WARD 


*9 


laid up, you know, and all that—but back here to get you 
and take you away ( In a final burst of ardor.) with me 
to be mine forever. 

Mar. Do you really want me that bad? 

Marx. Want you ! ( Drowning — down, down, down 

in admiration.) My, girl! But you’re wonderful! 
(Rising again to the surface, and reverting to his case.) 
I haven’t had any chance, you know, to earn—this thing. 
But I’ve tried every way I could.—You know when I 
went to the basement and fixed the heater that time the 
water was cold and the old man in “ Number 2 ” was 
roaring for his bath—and the pain in his back, and all— 
I did that for you; and lots of times I didn’t take my 
hot pack, just to save you the trouble of giving me 
one- 

Mar. ( looking up suddenly, and accusingly). You 
wouldn’t take one this morning! 

Marx (in the glory of sacrifice). Yes; that’s why,— 
sweetheart.—May I call you—that? 

Mar. (a little severely). You have no right to refuse 
a hot pack. You said you didn’t feel like taking it. 

Marx. Well, you see —I didn’t feel like it - 

Mar. Your health - 

Marx (interrupting). What’s my health beside—your 
love? 

Mar. (intensely). If you knew how much your health 
meant to me- 

Marx (leaning forward and capturing her hand). 
Don’t—don’t say it yet, Marion. I’m not going to ask 
you if you love me—yet. I want to be fair, and it 
wouldn’t be fair to make you say—it before I’ve had a 
chance to make—to prove—and all that, maybe—just 
saving you steps and trouble now and then—— (An¬ 
other burst.) But I’ve thought about you day and night, 
almost. I’ll ask you if you—do when I come back. 
You’ll tell me then, won’t you? 

Mar. Yes; I’ll tell you any time you wish me to. 
(Then, as naturally as though from long practice.) But 
you’ll change when you get back to your friends and 
your work. They will seem good to you again, and- 







20 


THE FEVER WARD 


Marx ( storming the rampart of this doubt'). No, sir! 
I’ll never change toward you, if that’s what you mean.— 
Oh, of course, I haven’t any right to make—to ask you 
to believe me.—You do believe me anyway, don’t you? 
If you believe in me, I can do anything—that is—yes, 
anything. You do, don’t you? 

Mar. Yes, I believe you, Frank. I’ll be here waiting 
for you, and when you come back, I’ll tell you anything 
you wish to know. ( Smiling up at him.) Is that the 
answer ? 

Marx ( almost beyond words). My! I never knew 
how happy—I wish I was good enough for you- 

Mar. You let me worry about that. ( Withdraws her 
hand slowly.) And remember, I’m your nurse until to¬ 
morrow. We mustn’t forget that you came to get well, 
and not to fall in love. ( She rises.) Now you relax, 
and make up for lost time. 

Marx ( obediently ). Anything you say- 

([The call-bell rings outside.) 

Mar. There! Someone wants another bottle of milk. 

Marx. Or an egg-nog. 

Mar. {significantly). Or maybe someone only wants 
to talk to me. 

Marx. Just let me hear about it! 

Mar. {at the door, smiling). I will. Be a good boy 
now, and drink your milk. [Exit. 

(Marx has hardly rearranged himself on his pillows 
when , after a perfunctory knock , the door reopens 
to admit Dr. Introwitz. He closes the door and 
walks briskly across to the bureau , greeting Marx 
as he goes.) 

Intro. 'Morning, Marx. 

Marx. Hello, Chuck. 

Intro, {asserting rather than inquiring). How’s 
things this morning? {As he looks at the chart.) Urn- 
hum. Pulse and temperature not taken this morning, 
I see. 




THE FEVER WARD 


21 


Marx. No; not this morning. 

Intro. (setting down the chart). Well, I guess we’d 
better get you now for a minute. (He takes his stetho¬ 
scope from his pocket and goes around back of the bed 
as he talks. Marx lies at full length on that side of the 
bed and opens his bathrobe slightly for the application 
of the instrument. As we get a full view of Introwitz 
we see that he is a cleanly built young fellow, but one 
calling for no more special description than any of a 
dozen one might meet any day in the week. He is im¬ 
maculate, well-tailored, and, of course, good looking. 
He is brisk in professional matters, but still pretty much 
of a kid in other ways. In all, a typical product of the 
medical school, before experience has gotten in its sober¬ 
ing licks. Introwitz stands holding the ear-pieces of 
the stethoscope in his hands.) Sundberg will be in some¬ 
time to-day himself to give you the final going-over. 
He’s mighty pleased with your improvement. And we’ve 
had a good time in the bargain. 

Marx. We certainly have, Chuck. 

Intro. With a little slowing down and letting up, 
you’ll be O. K. 

Marx. I’m going to do all that; I’ve got a lot of life 
before me yet, and a lot of happiness too. I’m going to 
take care of myself, for the sake of that. 

Intro. (grinning in understanding). Oh! So? Re¬ 
member me to her when you write. 

Marx (also grinning ). I’ll do it. 

(As Introwitz finishes speaking, he adjusts the ear¬ 
pieces of the stethoscope to his ears and places the 
instrument lightly over Marx’s heart. As he gets 
the sounds, he frowns; then, after a moment, he re¬ 
moves the stethoscope, lays it on the bed, and taking 
his watch in one hand and Marx’s left wrist in the 
other, counts for a few seconds. Then he straight¬ 
ens up and looks quizzically at Marx.) 

Intro. Hm-m-m. What the devil’s the matter, 
Marx? 


21 


THE FEVER WARD 


Marx {guiltily). Matter? 

Intro. Sure. 

Marx. Why, nothing—I believe. 

Intro. That’s funny. It isn’t usual for a fellow 
who’s been doing nothing to have a pulse of a hundred 
and twelve. 

Marx. Well, I—I don’t understand that, Chuck. 
What would make that, I wonder? 

Intro. I don’t exactly understand it myself. That 
heart’s working too hard. 

Marx. Of course, you know—I’ve walked around 
quite a little this morning—out to get weighed, and down¬ 
stairs and around- 

Intro. Did you have a hot pack this morning? 

Marx. Ye—well, no, I—you see, Marion—Miss 
Crewe thought I shouldn’t have one on the last day. It 
might be too weakening. {Brightly.) But I had my bath 
pretty hot this morning. That would- 

Intro. Sundberg’s going to roar like a bull when he 
listens to that heart of yours. 

Marx {still bent on exoneration) . I tell you too, Doc., 
I think—don’t you think the excitement of going home 
has a good deal to do with this pulse? You don’t know 
what it means to get back home to my work, and to- 

{Pause.) 

Intro, {grinning as he reaches over and gets the 
stethoscope, which he slowly rolls up and drops in his 
pocket). Sure, I know how it is. I’ve got one waiting 
for me too. It puts the old ginger in life, doesn’t it? 
{Glancing at his watch.) Well, I’ll be moving along. 
{Leaning over the foot of the bed and speaking warmly.) 
But I tell you, old horse, watch that heart of yours. 
Above everything, you want to avoid extreme emotion 
and exciting situations as far as you possibly can. 
{Straightening up.) If you don’t take care of yourself, 
you may come back here before many days, and I don’t 
suppose that would appeal to you? 

Marx. It might not be so bad. But thanks for the 
tip, Chuck. I’m going to settle down. 





THE FEVER WARD 


2 3 


{Simultaneously with this last statement, there is a 
knock at the door. Introwitz opens it, to admit 
Jack, who carries a glass about half full of milk. 
The call-bell rings.) 

Intro. By Gad! There’s no keeping good men down ! 

Jack {holding up his glass). But we’re faithful to 
the end, Doc. 

Intro. Well, it’s doing you good. [Exit. 

{We see Marion pass down the hall. Jack sits in the 
rocking-chair, and drinks the milk in his glass dur¬ 
ing the next few speeches.) 

Jack. You and Chuck been weeping over the 
break-up ? 

Marx. Not exactly. Fine fellow that. He was giv¬ 
ing me some advice; but he intimated that what Sund- 
berg was going to say to me would be more like abuse 
than advice. 

Jack. No! What about? 

Marx. Oh, about me and my modus vivendi. 

Jack. Whatever that is ! 

Marx. That’s Latin for “ too much pep,” in my case 
at least. But just between us, he had better not get too 
rough, or I’ll steal the most valuable possession he has, 
if he just knew it. Maybe I will anyway. 

Jack. What d’ya call the most valuable thing he’s 
got? 

Marx. I haven’t called it yet. Suppose you guess 
a while? 

Jack. I don’t know what you’d elect to fill the bill; 
but in my opinion, Frank, I don’t think you’re going to 
steal it. 

Marx. Not, eh? {Gloating.) You watch the pa¬ 
pers and see. 

Jack. That’s all right. I s’pose it’s just like the bird 
said to the worm: we’re both right. It’s just a difference 
of opinion. Get me? 

Marx {still smiling). I guess so. 

Jack. I’ll bet you good money that if I tip you off to 


24 


THE FEVER WARD 


my idea, you’ll admit I’m the best little old judge off the 
Supreme Bench. 

Marx. That looks like easy money. How much? 

Jack. Five dollars. 

Marx. I need five dollars. What is your answer? 

Jack (just a little hesitantly) . I ought to say, old boy, 
that I really came in here just now to spill this to you 
anyway. I knew, things being as they are between you 
and me, you’d be interested- 

Marx. Go ahead. I am interested—five dollars’ 
worth. 

Jack ( more impulsively) . Well—to get at the facts, 
this place would be some graveyard without Marion 
Crewe. Nothing could bring it to life. The bird that 
nabs that little woman is sure going to injure old Sund- 
berg’s possessions quite some. That’s what I’m going to 
do. ( Working the thumb and fingers of one hand pru¬ 
riently.) Where do you keep your money? 

Marx ( with laughter in his voice). You are an ex¬ 
cellent little old judge, Jack. But never mind the money; 
all bets are off, for I’m as good a judge as you are. 
Marion Crewe is my answer too. 

Jack ( penitently. Honor among thieves, you know). 
Now say, Marx—I’m sorry. Really I am, old man- 

Marx {lightly). Oh, that’s all right, Jack. I just 
hope you aren’t too disappointed. That’s all. 

Jack (with the gravity of that Supreme Bench he 
mentioned earlier). No. I don’t believe I’m going to 
be disappointed in her. She’s exactly the sort of a woman 
I’ve got to have. 

Marx {the humor of the thing growing too much for 
him). Ha, ha, ha, ha! Excuse my hilarity, Judge, but it 
just occurs to me—I wouldn’t plan too much on this 
robbery until I had asked her. 

{And he laughs heartily again.) 

Jack. Asked her? I have asked her. 

Marx {his hilarity stopping with a jerk). Huh? 

Jack. I have asked her. Everything’s fixed. 




THE FEVER WARD 25 

Marx {floundering). You mean—you’ve asked her to 

—to marry you ? And she- 

Jack. Somethin’ of a jolt, eh? She said “ yes ”- 

Marx. She said she would marry you? 

Jack. Well now, I s’pose I’ll have to write it out for 

you? Or maybe you think I’m not good enough- 

Marx ( gradually collecting himself). No; oh, no, 
Jack. It’s—that is—it isn’t that exactly. It’s a kind of 
surprise, though; for somehow I had not thought of 
Crewe in just that way, you see—never connected her 
with matrimony, I mean. I always rather considered 
her as married to her calling, her profession. 

Jack. Humph! I never had much time for that kind 
of marriage myself. Sounds like fairy-tale stuff to me. 
—Well, do you ever congratulate a man? > 

Marx ( starting up and putting out his hand with a 
brief wan smile). Why—yes, of course. Congratula¬ 
tions, Jack. (Jack takes his hand and pumps it might¬ 
ily.) Er—by the way, when did you ask the lady about 
this ? 

Jack. Just a moment ago; just before I came in. 
After we’d all been in here a while ago, I got to think¬ 
ing this thing over, this leaving and all. I saw plain 
enough it was that woman I hated to leave more than 
anything, not the place at all. I rang for her to tell her 
about it. Believe me, I was going to make a swell speech 
of it. But did I? I did not. When she came in, I 
couldn’t say a word. All I could do was tell her I just 
wanted to talk to her a while. Just blurted around like 
some damn school-kid. I guess if she hadn’t kinda 
helped me a little, I’d never got it out. I could tell I was 
on the right trail by the way she helped me. It’s a sure 

thing with her. . .. . TT u 

Marx ( dumbly , but trying to appear alive). Um-huh. 
Jack ( encouraged , mostly from within). She’s come 
to mean everything to me, that woman has. This 11 
sound rummy to you and Art, of course, because you 
fellows are different from me. But, dang it, I fall for 
every quality she’s got. In the mornings when she comes 
into my room, Marx, the old hole brightens all up kinda, 





26 


THE FEVER WARD 


and take it from me, I’ve listened for those footsteps of 
hers until I can tell ’em two blocks up the street. 

Marx {huskily). Um-huh. 

Jack ( coursing on). For once in my wicked old life, 
Marx, I wished I was an English teacher, so I could 
throw the old language the way I felt.—I’m tellin’ you a 
lot more, believe me, than I told her.—You know, this 
dump ain’t any kind of a place to show how crazy a 
fellow is about a woman. The only thing to do was to 
save her steps and trouble wherever I could. Well, I’ve 
cut myself out of about fifty dollars’ worth of service 
a-doin’ that. And if thinking about her is royal, I’m a 
whole kingdom.—She was afraid I’d forget about her 
in a few weeks, and of course you couldn’t hardly blame 
her- 

(After three or four sharp taps on the door, which 
interrupt Jack’s recital, the door opens. As is usual 
when Arthur knocks , before anyone can utter an 
invitation to enter, Arthur rolls inside and closes 
the door after him.) 

Marx ( somewhat crustily, for a friend). You 
shouldn’t hesitate that way before you come in; you 
might catch cold. 

Art. Never mind. Never mind. ( Lowers himself 
into his straight chair as before.) Been knocking on 
doors ’round here for five weeks. Nobody’s ever said 
anything but “ come in.” Why wait for that? 

Jack. Sure. Why wait? But you happened in just 
right this time. We’re having a jubilation- 

Art. Didn’t happen in. Came in. Came in to say 
something. Don’t know what effect it’s going to have 
on you sinners, but it’s solved this going-away business- 
for me. 

Jack ( lavish and innocent). Good. Chuck fixed it 
up for you with Sundberg, eh? 

Art. Sundberg? Had nothing to say about it. He’ll 
say his later—after the minister gets through. 

Jack. Yeah? 




THE FEVER WARD 27 

Marx (just a little crossly, as Arthur pauses). 
Well? 

Art. You boys know. No hand for fine language. 
Soft stuff—all that bunk. Wanted to tell you fellows, 

though. Been pretty close and all- 

Marx. Pass over the introduction, Redding. Give 
us the main speech. 

Art. Suits me. Decided to ask Marion Crewe to 
marry me. 

Marx {disgusted) . That’s easy. 

Jack (in the safety of his position). Ain’t it, though! 
(He laughs heartily, as Marx once laughed.) It’s a 
lovely idea, Art, my boy. But there’s quite some dis¬ 
advantage to being built for comfort, like you, instead 
of speed. 

Art. Don’t get you. 

Jack. That’s only one thing you don’t get. 

Art. What else don’t I get? 

Jack (winking at Marx). Wait ’til you ask her. 

Art. Ask her ? Have asked her. 

(It is Jack’s turn now, and he lacks not only training 
in the art of concealing, hut the temperament for it 
as well. Where a man of Marx’s nature is stunned 
and confused by a mental or spiritual blow, Jack 
is angered and registers the effect of the blow by a 
very visible tendency to fight.) 

Jack (tensely, with his eyes narrowed on Arthur). 
You’ve asked her. 

Art. Right. 

Jack ( challenging, nearly shouting). What did she 
say? 

Art. Said “Yes.” Why not? 

Jack. I’ll bet you’re a liar. 

(There is an instant of electric silence , in zvhicli the 
men measure each other, Arthur wondering and 
surprised, Jack angry and hostile.) 

Marx. Here! There’s no use you fellows getting 


28 


THE FEVER WARD 


violent over this thing. There’s been some kind of a 
mistake, or something- 

Jack ( subsiding somewhat). All I say is, there’d bet¬ 
ter be some mistake. 

Art. {blandly). No mistake on my side. Plain ques¬ 
tion. Plain answer. 

Jack. Uh-huh. When’d you do this asking? 

Art. Don’t see’s it makes any difference. Asked her 
just before I came in here. Not five minutes ago. 

Jack. What d’ya think of that kind of thing, Marx? 
—All I’ve got to say, Redding, is that you don’t get a 
look-in. See? Because she’s promised me that little 
thing. 

Art. {wide-eyed). Promised you? When? 

Jack. Before she promised you,—if she ever did. 

Art. See here—rather believe her than you, Camp¬ 
bell—call her right now and get this straight. What say ? 

Jack. You’re mighty right we will. 

Marx {starting up). Say! No—listen, fellows! Not 
here, you know- 

Art. Why not? Need a witness in this. 

{He has seised the call-bell button, in spite of Marx’s 
efforts to stop him, and the bell rings as Arthur 
speaks.) 

Marx. No! Say, honestly, fellows—you see, I don’t 
want to be drawn into this—this misunderstanding- 

Jack. That’s all right, Marx. You’re clear. 

Marx {angrily). I wish to the devil I was, and you 
two had your squabble in one of your own rooms where 
it belongs. {A familiar little tattoo on the door.) Come 
on. 

Mar. {opens the door and smiles in on them). Did 
you ring? 

Marx. Well,—not exactly- 

Art. No; it was- 

Marx {quickly deciding he might be better off in the 
ring than outside of it). Wait a minute, Redding. {To 
Marion.) Could you come in for a moment? {She does 
so, closing the door and standing with her back against 







THE FEVER WARD 29 

it.) You can help us out of a difficulty, I believe, if you 
will, Miss Crewe. 

Mar. Yes? 

(Her smile has given way to a troubled expression, 
slight, but visible, as of someone who fears for a 
well-laid plan.) 

Marx. I am going to be brief, at the risk of seeming 
crude. Which one of—these two men did you promise 
to marry? Or do they both misunderstand—maybe? 

Mar. Of these—two? (As Marx nods.) I am sure 
this is very embarrassing for me. 

Marx. But hardly so embarrassing as it might be 
later, I should think. 

Mar. Oh, yes; much more so. (A troubled pause.) 
Must I tell you what has happened ? 

Marx. Well—I- (A happy thought.) Of 

course, if there’s been a misunderstanding- 

Mar. No; it isn’t that. They are both right. 

Marx (in pain). Both? 

(The other men look at her dumbly.) 

Mar. (nodding). They both asked me, and I prom¬ 
ised them both. 

Jack. But I asked first. 

Art. Promised me last. 

Marx. And you- (Helplessly.) Won’t you ex¬ 

plain? 

Mar. (speaking as though to younger brothers who 
have been naughty). Now you men have made a lot of 
trouble for yourselves and for me, just by foolishness. 
Who would ever think of big strong men sitting and 
gabbling the affairs of their hearts ? Shame on you! I 
thought only girls and foolish women did that. 

Jack (sharply). It seems it’s a bigger mistake to 
gabble them to you. 

Mar. You can decide that for yourselves, after you’ve 
heard what you’re making me tell you. (More in the 
tone of professional exposition.) The theory on which 


3° 


THE FEVER WARD 


this Sanitorium is run is that of contentment. When a 
patient wants anything we give it to him, so long as what 
he wants does not interfere with his progress. I have 
been here now exactly three years, and in those three 
years have had over thirty proposals of marriage. ( She 
pauses a moment to let this have its effect. Marx alone 
gazes at her; hut as for any motion, all three might have 
been made of stone.) The first man who proposed to 
me, I accepted, seriously. In three weeks after he left 
here, he had utterly forgotten me. I heard no more of 
him until I read of his marriage about four months after. 
The next man who proposed to me, I refused, of course. 
He was practically well at the time, but from that mo¬ 
ment he became dissatisfied and miserable, and finally 
went away from here as one of our failures. I have ac¬ 
cepted every proposal since the second one, several of 
them coming from men with wives and families. We 
have never failed to cure them, and you see {Smiling.) 
I am still here. This is embarrassing to me, because I 
have had to lay bare one of the secrets of our success, 
one which men naturally wouldn’t approve of. But 
{And she speaks with earnest appeal.) I hope you will 
understand, and will like me still. I want you to get 
well. Oh, if you only knew how much! In all my work, 
I have never lost a life. 

Art. {after a hit of silence, not exactly looking at her). 
Think we understand you all right. 

Mar. I know you will. I’m so afraid of setbacks in 
our patients; they take the heart right out of us somehow. 
They’re so dangerous. {Smiling again.) But you have 
all been lovely to me,—to all of us here. 1 can’t tell you 
how much we hate to see you leaving. We’re going to 
miss you. {She turns to go.) You’re to have a nice 
tray this evening, Mr. Campbell. I’m going to fix it for 
you myself. 

Jack {feebly). Thanks. Thanks. 

Mar. {aiming next for Redding). And as for you, 
there’s a nice cold egg-nog in on your table,—that is, it 
was cold when I came in here. 

(Arthur can only smile, but he is bagged.) 


THE FEVER WARD 


3 1 


Marx (as Marion is about to open the door). Miss 
Crewe- 

Mar. Yes? 

Marx. I think we understand this secret of yours 
pretty well. But isn’t it just possible that some day— 
well—that the man may appear who really- 

Mar. (laughing tolerantly). Oh, yes; he may happen 
by. One would be only human to admit that. 

Marx. And suppose he does happen by, how will you 
know him from the scores—from the rest of us? 

Mar. she opens the door). Oh, that will be easy. 
(Turning in the door.) He will not forget me. 

(And she is gone. Jack rises decisively, extends his 
hand to Arthur and speaks, not unkindly.) 

Jack. I’ll take it all back, Redding. 

Art. (on his feet). Not at all. Pleasure was all mine. 

(And they seal a new covenant with a handshake. 
They remain standing.) 

Marx (somewhat gaily). So we aren’t going to knife 
each other after all ? 

Art. No call for it. She’s right. 

Marx. What do you think of her philosophy? 

Art. It works. All you can ask of any philosophy. 

Jack. It’s all right, I guess. But for a minute it sure 
is hard on fond hopes. 

Marx. It certainly substantiates my theory about her 
being a thing apart from matrimony. 

Art. Puts her in a new light’s far ’s I’m concerned. 
Got a feeling her future husband’s not in this crowd. 

Jack (impersonally, just by way of making conversa¬ 
tion). Think not? 

Art. Don’t believe anyone here’s got the kind of 
memory called for. Lots of difference between love and 
just plain gratitude. Study that out. (Starting for the 
door.) Goin’ to get that egg-nog. See you later. 

Marx. Sure. Hurry back. [Exit Arthur. 

Jack (leaning his arms on the foot of the bed, toying 




THE FEVER WARD 


3* 

with his empty glass). What’s your real opinion about 
this stuff? 

Marx. Exactly what, Jack? 

Jack. Oh—all this—proposing business that Art and 
Eve fallen for. 

Marx. I don’t know. It seems a little pathetic to 
me,—her case, I mean; not you fellows. 

Jack. How do you mean pathetic? 

Marx. Well, here she is, a nurse. Fine woman; ac¬ 
complished, pretty, lots of common sense, and all that. 
She would probably make a beautiful little wife for some 
fellow. 

Jack ( nodding ). Yeah; I think that’s so. 

Marx. Almost any man would think so. That’s 
probably what every man thinks who comes through this 
place; and, according to what she told us, almost every 
man thinks he is the fellow she would make the beautiful 
little wife for. 

Jack. Yeah. 

Marx (building a rhetorical argument,—and a spe¬ 
cious one!). Well, you see what happens. She hasn’t a 
chance. Why? Because they forget. Why do they 
forget? Because they know her only as a nurse, know 
her only as a cap and uniform. 

Jack. But don’t you think a helpless, peevish guy 
would just about test out the real woman under the cap 
and uniform, and get to know her mighty well too? 

Marx. It might look that way. But when all is said 
and done, Art was right: it is gratitude, and only that. 
When a man gets out of his helplessness and back into 
the old life and is able to look out for himself, she has no 
place in his life, and, of course, other things squeeze her 
out. That is the way it is. 

Jack {who would argue , perhaps, if he had the words). 
Yeah- 

Marx {with as much sincerity as though he really be¬ 
lieved what he was saying). There’s another possibility, 
too. Out of her uniform she may be an entirely different 
woman from the one we know, or think we know. You 
never can tell. But in any case, you’ll find, Jack, that of 



THE FEVER WARD 


33 


all the men who pass through the sphere of her tender¬ 
ness here, there is not going to be a one who will remem¬ 
ber her, as so many promise to do. 

Jack. No; I guess not. Still- 

Marx. I can see her philosophy exactly. Just more 
of her unselfishness. I told you before that I thought of 
her as married to her calling, and I think of her more 
than ever that way now. 

Jack ( sincerely seeking information). Some folks 
really do that, do they? 

Marx. Yes, they do. I believe she is one of them. 

Jack. But she said she was human- 

Marx. She didn’t say exactly that. She said it would 
be human to admit that such a man- 

Jack ( sighting a knot-hole). But she is human, ain’t 
she? 

Marx. Yes, of course. But listen to reason. She is 
absolutely right in her theory that accepting these pro¬ 
posals is best for the patient and therefore best for the 
institution; but you can see she would be absolutely 
wrong if it wasn’t a moral certainty that no man would 
come back for her. For what one man would do, two, 
or six, or a dozen would do. Then where would she be, 
along with this institution, with its thirteen years of suc¬ 
cess? 

Jack ( straightening up). I wish I could throw the 
English like you can. And I wish I had the self-control 
you’ve got, too, so I’d have stayed out of this mess. It 
ain’t a thing a fellow likes to be mistaken about. I’m too 
thin. Things get under my hide too easy.-—Well, I’m 
goin’ to the room a while. ( Pausing with his hand on 
the door-knob.) I guess you’re absolutely right about all 
this. So long. 

Marx. So long, Jack. 

(In the doorway Jack stops , speaking to Hilda out¬ 
side. ) 

Jack. Hello, here’s the mail. Did I get any, sweet¬ 
heart ? 

Hilda (coming up to him). Sure you did. You got 





34 


THE FEVER WARD 


a letter from- (She examines the envelope closely 

on all sides.) I don’t know who it’s from. It’s a 
woman’s handwriting, though. (Sniffs at it. Then, 
handing it to him.) It’s perfumed, too. 

Jack (taking the letter). That’s all right. I’ll find 
out who it’s from and let you know. 

{He goes down the hall.) 

Hilda {calling after him). All right. Be sure, now. 

{She reaches in for the door-knob to close the door as 
she leaves.) 

Marx {sitting up eagerly, speaking softly). Hilda! 

Hilda. You didn’t get any to-day. 

Marx. That’s all right. Come here, and shut the 
door. (Hilda does so.) Hilda, tell Miss Crewe I want 
her a moment, will you, for me? 

Hilda {absorbed in sorting and examining letters and 
cards). Why don’t you ring for her? She just went 
down the hall. 

Marx. No. Listen; I don’t want to ring for her. 
The old lady in Number 4 said the bell made her nervous. 

Hilda {resignedly, going toward the door reading a 
post-card). Well, for goodness sakes ! You men! First 
one of you, and then the oth- 

{The closing door cuts off what else she may have said. 
Marx rearranges himself on his pillows , and is 
smoothing out his bathrobe when the door opens, 
with the usual preface of little taps, and Marion 
looks in.) 

Mar. Yes? 

Marx {as his courage oozes from him). Yes. 

Mar. Hilda said you were in pain. 

Marx. I—guess that is it. Could you come in for a 
minute—for another minute? (Marion comes in, clos¬ 
ing the door after her, and comes toward the bed.) Say, 
why didn’t you give me away a while ago ? 

Mar. Give you away? 




THE FEVER WARD 35 

Marx. Yes. Why didn’t you tell those fellows that 
I—that you- 

Mar. Oh. ( Looks down an instant before she an¬ 
swers, quietly.) Did you want to be given away? 

Marx. N-no, I s’pose not. Oh shucks! I—as I see 
things now, and all that—the way things are going to be, 
I mean, you know—I don’t believe I would have- 

{Silence.) 

Mar. You see, I thought maybe if you wanted it 
known, you would tell it yourself. 

Marx. That is swee—that’s just like you. 

Mar. I hope there weren’t any hurt feelings. I was 
so afraid; for in all the three years, with all the thirty- 
odd, this never happened before. 

Marx. I guess Jack and Art don’t feel bad— much. 

Mar. And you? 

Marx. Why, I- {He gulps.) You know -- 

{He sits up suddenly.) Marion, I- You remember 

what you said, don’t you? The right man wouldn’t for¬ 
get you, and all that: don’t you ? 

Mar. {looking into his eyes, flooding him with that 
contagious calm of hers). Yes; I remember it. 

Marx {fiercely). Well, I didn’t shake hands with 
anybody about this. I didn’t apologize to anybody for 
saying I loved you—like those other two did. Look here, 
Marion, I love you. There. I said that without any 
help. I meant—what I asked you, and I mean it now. 
I’ll mean it three hundred years from now! {He cap¬ 
tures one of her hands and draws her toward him.) Lis¬ 
ten, now. I’m asking you again. See? May I come 
back here, and will you wait for me? It’ll be so—so nice 
to have someone waiting on me. Will you ? Please- 

Mar. You still think you really love me, Frank, after 
what I have told you about my—my theories ? 

Marx. I’m interested in facts more than I am in the¬ 
ories. Marion—I’ll tell you now, if you—that is, now, if 
I had any right to expect you to love me enough just yet, 
and all—I’d not let you stay around here waiting. All 
these proposals, and all—how do I know- 







36 the fever ward 

Mar. But I say I’ll wait. 

Marx. You say that to all of them—us, I mean. I 
wish I had the right to ask you to go with me now—to¬ 
morrow. But you have said you would wait, haven’t 
you? 

Mar. And that the right man- 

Marx. Would not forget you.—I— (His kingdom for 
the right word!) I’ll not forget you, ever. I couldn’t, 
you know—never in a thousand years. 

Mar. (smiling). That’s a long time. 

(She withdraws her hand, comes up closer and is 
“ patting up ” his pillows , when there is a knock on 
the door.) 

Marx. Come on. 

Hilda (just looking in). Miss Crewe, Number 8 
wants you. (In the voice of unbelief.) Says the bell is 
out of order. 

Mar. Very well. (Exit Hilda.) Now you lie back, 
and relax. Remember—you’re to get well! 

Marx (lying back). I’ll prove myself, Marion. I’m 
a kind of fool, I know; but I guess all men are when 
they’re in love. 

Mar. And not at any other time? 

(Goes toward the door.) 

Marx. Listen now: if you meet those other two fel¬ 
lows in the hall, don’t you speak to them. They’re quit¬ 
ters. 

Mar. All right. But I’m glad they are quitters; 
aren’t you? 

(Exit, as Marx grins and nods in reply. Marx lies a 
moment, then reaches over and feels the pulse in his 
right wrist. Has just begun this when he starts, sits 
up, scowling blackly.) 

Marx. “ Room 8 ”! That’s Campbell! The infer¬ 
nal - By gad, I’ll not let him! I’ll ring for her! 

I’ll- (He reaches madly for the call-bell button, but 





THE FEVER WARD 


37 

is interrupted by several sharp knocks on his door, which 
opens immediately. Arthur comes in, evidently in per¬ 
turbation of some sort. Marx comes to order quickly .) 
Oh. Hello. Have a chair. 

Art. ( doesn't take a chair, but . walks back and forth, 
pulling up finally near the left window). Don’t need 
chair guess. 

Marx. All right. What’s on your mind ? 

Art. Good deal. What time that damn train go to¬ 
morrow ? 

Marx. Twelve-twenty-five, isn’t it? 

Art. ( clears his throat). Hem-m. How much milk 
you drunk? 

Marx. Two and a - Say! What are you, the 

census-taker ? 

Art. {over near the window, wheels suddenly). Look 
here, Marx. Changed my mind about that girl. 

Marx. Changed your mind? What girl? 

Art. Listen at him! That girl. What other girl is 
there ? 

Marx {his voice rising in spite of him). What do you 
mean you’ve changed your mind about her? 

Art. Decided I want her. Got to have her. 

Marx. So ! How many more times do you expect to 
change your mind about her ? 

Art. No more times. That’s how many. 

Marx. Well, what do you propose doing about it this 
time ? 

Art. Goin’ to remember her. ’Member what she 
said? Right man won’t forget her. Right man’s right 
here. {And that there may be no mistake as to who is 
meant, he strikes his chest with his fist.) Jack may give 
her up, but I’ve changed my mind. 

Marx. Pretty thin! Do you think she is going to be¬ 
lieve you after that holy show you and Campbell put on 
in here a while ago? 

Art. Not worryin’ about that’t all. Believes me al¬ 
ready. 

Marx {sitting up). You haven’t gone and asked her 

again ? 



THE FEVER WARD 


38 

Art. Haven’t I ? She’s waiting for me. 

Marx ( losing control). She is doing nothing of the 
sort! 

Art. How do you know ? 

(In the silence which takes place of Marx’s answer, 
the door opens, without any preliminary knock at all, 
and Jack strides in, all agrin, waiting for no for¬ 
malities. ) 

Jack. Say, boys, it’s all right about this philosophy 
business,—forgetting, and all the rest of it. I’m no 
philosopher, but I’m tellin’ the world right now “ hands 
off.” 

Art. Hands off what? 

Jack. You heard what the little woman said about the 
right man not forgetting her- 

Marx (with more anger than friendship should allow). 
Yes; we heard it. The question is, did you? 

Jack. I’ve thought this thing through, and I want to 
hand in my decision before any of the rest of you get too 
busy. I’ve just talked to Marion, and I’m the man that 
isn’t going to forget her. There it is, without any frills. 

(Marx swings off his bed and stands near the other 
window, across the back of the room from Arthur. 
He glares at the other two, and his voice literally 
shakes with anger.) 

Marx. I wish to the devil you fools wouldn’t come 
kiting into my room with your damnable gossip. I don’t 
know who ever gave you the idea that I care a hang 
whether you remember or forget, or—or what the blazes 
you do. 

Art. (with some surprise). What you flyin’ off about? 
No funeral of yours. 

Marx. Maybe it isn’t my funeral yet; but it’s going to 
be, either mine or someone else’s, mighty soon if you 
driveling idiots don’t stay out of here with your going : on 
about remembering and forgetting. You don’t know 
what you’re talking about, either one of you. 



THE FEVER WARD 


39 


Jack. What do you mean by that? 

Marx. Exactly what I said. You don’t know what 
you’re talking about. That sounds plain enough to me. 

Jack. I usually know what I’m talking about, and I’m 
ready to back it up. 

Art. Won’t have any of that, now. Hear me?— 
Marx, keep still. You’re not in this game. 

Marx. You think I’m not in this game. I am in it, 
I’m going to stay in it, and I won’t keep still. I’ve been 
in love with Marion Crewe longer than either of you, and 
a lot deeper. I told her first, asked for her first—every¬ 
thing. You two can do what you like, believe what you 
like, remember or forget whoever you please whenever 
you get ready. But there’s one thing you’d better forget 
right away; and what that is you know, both of you. 

{Another knock on the door, which opens in an instant, 
without invitation. Dr. Introwitz enters, glances 
about jovially, then goes across to the bureau, leav¬ 
ing the door open. Speaks as he goes.) 

Intro. Hello,—what is it, a rising vote? What’s be¬ 
fore the house?— I just want to get some figures here. 

{He has taken up the chart and is examining it care¬ 
fully. No one speaks. Marx and Arthur find at¬ 
traction through their respective windows. Jack, 
after Introwitz passes him, steps over and closes 
the door, then goes over near the little table. As 
Introwitz turns again, Jack addresses him.) 

Jack. I want to ask you something, Chuck. 

Intro. ’Right. {Studies a note he has made.) 

Jack. What kind of a jane is this Marion Crewe? 

{The word {C jane ” is electric.) 

Intro, {thrusts his note into a pocket. His reply has 
thorns on it). I don’t understand - 

Jack {zvith significance). I wondered if you did. 

Intro, {flaring). And I want to ask you a question: 
Just what do you mean? 



40 


THE FEVER WARD 


Jack. I mean that for a woman in her position, she 
takes a lot of liberty with what’s decent —-— 

Marx. You look out there, Campbell! 

Jack. . . . and don’t know a promise when she 

makes one. 

Marx. Now there’s no sense to that. She hasn’t 
broken any promises. 

Art. ’Mounts to that. ’Mounts to that. 

Jack. Ain’t it, though? 

Intro. ( growing more virulent ). What I want to 
know- 

Marx. Well, all of you know where I stand—I don’t 
want any insults- 

Art. Where you stand- 

Jack. Looks to me like you stand right where the rest 
of us do. 

Intro. Say! What I want to know- 

Marx. Right there’s where you don’t know what 
you’re- 

Art. Shut up, Marx! 

Marx. Shut up ? Why don’t you shut up ? 

Intro. ( shouting them all dozvn). All of you shut up ! 
(Pounding the foot of the bed in tempo.) Shut up! 
Shut up! (For some unknown reason, they do so.) I 
don’t know what all this mess is, but evidently you’ve 
been tearing Marion Crewe to pieces. I want you to stop 
it. (To Jack.) You asked me about her. Here’s your 
answer, though I’m here to tell you, you don’t deserve it 
—any of you. First of all, she’s the best nurse that ever 
drew a breath. You loafers have got a lot to thank her 
for, if you only had brains enough to know it; fact is, 
you’ve got her to thank for practically everything you’ve 
gotten out of your treatment here, and you’re all going 
away cured. You know that, don’t you? (The others, 
rather quelled, make no effort to reply.) And in the sec¬ 
ond place, I don’t want any more discussion of her like 
I’ve just heard, because she and I happen to be engaged. 

Art. (before he can catch himself). Oh, my Lord! 

Intro, (to Arthur). Well, what have you got- 

Jack. She knows about that engagement, does she? 









THE FEVER WARD 


41 


Intro. What’s that? Knows about it? Of course 
she knows about it. We’ve been engaged three years 
nearly. 

Art. ( naively ). Your engagement rather older than 
ours. 

Intro. Yours? Whose? 

Art. ( indicating Jack, Marx and himself with a throw 
of his hand). Ours. 

Intro, {louder). Look here! Somebody’s walking 

on dangerous ground- 

Marx. I guess you are. 

Art. I guess not. Her promise don’t- 

Intro, {with heat and gestures). I want to tell you 
right here- 

{The whole scene grows gradually in speedy intensity, 
and volume.) 

Jack. I could tell you a thing or two myself- 

Intro. . . . I’m not going to stand still and let 

this outfit insult the woman who’s waiting for me- 

Jack. Waiting for you ! Say - 

Marx. None of you know what you’re talking 
about- 

Art. Shut up, Marx! 

Jack. . . . just tell me why anybody but a blind 
man would wait for you! 

Marx. . . . why in the devil you brought this 

smear into my room- 

Art. Shut up, Marx! 

Marx. Shut up, Marx! What’s the matter with you 
keeping still a while ? 

Jack. . . . not have any pill-roller getting funny 
with me- 

Intro. . . . don’t see anything about any of you 

that a woman ’ud have. 

Art. Far’s looks is concerned- 

Jack. See me backin’ down for a- 

Marx. . . . idiots, all of us-- 

Jack. Who you callin’ an idiot ? 

Art. Gettin’ too fresh, he is- 














42 


THE FEVER WARD 


Intro. I’ll throw the whole batch of you straight out 
of here- 

Jack. Be glad enough to go of our own accord- 

Art. ... go when we get ready- 

Intro. This is the first time- 

Marx. . . . better off if we’d cut this out- 

Intro. This is the first time- 

Jack. You can believe me or not, this will be the last 
time too- 

Marx. We’d better remember whose name we are 
dragging through all this- 

(The door opens just in time to catch this speech, and 
Marion stands silently surveying the ruins of this 
temple of friendship with a mingled expression of 
amusement and annoyance. All see her except In- 
trowitz, who suddenly finds a complete silence in 
which to say what he has to say. He veritably 
shouts it, whipping his glance from one to the other.) 

Intro. This is the first time any goofs were ever 
crazy enough to think that a nurse in the regular per¬ 
formance of her duty was throwing herself at them. 
This institution isn’t offering matrimonial premiums with 
its treatment; and when it does, the premium will not be 
that woman. Believe me, you birds are a prize lot. 
Squirrel-food, I’d call you. Anybody would that had any 
sense. 

{He pauses for a breath, actually blind to the tension 
around him, expressed in the uneasy and averted 
glances of the other men.) 

Mar. {with quiet dignity, but with mischief lurking be¬ 
hind it). I wouldn’t. {She enters and closes the door. 
The Doctor’s philippic melts into confusion as he sees 
Marion. His lips move once or twice, but they make no 
sound. Marion continues.) The old lady in Number 
eleven is complaining of the noise down here; I can’t say 
that I blame her. {Seeming to suppress a smile.) I 
really must apologize for Dr. Introwitz losing his temper. 
—You did lose it, didn’t you, Doctor?—You see, he goes 







THE FEVER WARD 


43 


continually under a very great spiritual strain. He is at 
present engaged to two other nurses besides me. There 
are usually more than this, but the season is bad this 
year; though there may be some new ones I haven’t heard 
of. {Sweetly.) Are there, Doctor?—It is considered a 
great coup to be on the Doctor’s waiting list; although 
none of us who are now on it take the matter very seri¬ 
ously. 

{Enough for Introwitz. Without so much as a 
glance at the others he turns on his heel and stalks 
glumly out. We feel that not only we, but the three 
members of the recently formed “fellowship have 
seen the last of him.) 

Marx. We have been awful fools, Marion- 

Mar. You have been talking pretty roughly to each 
other in any case. I am sorry to have been the cause. 

Marx. For my part in it I wish to apologize, to you, 
and to—everybody present. 

(Marion smiles at him. Arthur acknowledges the 
apology with a hardly perceptible nod. Jack is 
studying Marion.) 

Mar. So you didn’t believe my theory, even after I 
explained it to you? All of you must surely believe it 

now. . 

Jack. It was that remark about the right man that 

made the trouble- 

Mar. And I’m to blame for this after all! Well, 
{Sigh.) I wish I could take it back. 

Marx. Then isn’t it true any longer ? 

Mar. Yes; it is. That’s why I can’t take it back. 

Art. {stirs and moves toward Marion, smiling half 
sheepishly, hand extended). Sure needn’t perjure your¬ 
self on my account, Nurse. Accept my apology? 

Mar. {taking his hand). Why, of course, Arthur. 

Art. Sorry been such a blooming donkey. All ears 
and no brain.' So’s Jack. So’s Marx 

Mar. {laughingly. Arthur still holds her hand). 
Not so bad as that, Arthur. 


44 


THE FEVER WARD 


Art. Every bit. But goin’ on good behavior now. 
Can trust me with anything in the house from now on, 
includin’ yourself. (He drops her hand, and opens the 
door. When nearly out, he puts his head hack in and 
says, in droll seriousness.) Thanks for the egg-nog. 

[Exit. 

Jack (after a slight hesitancy, going up to Marion as 
Arthur had done). Here’s my apology too. You’ve 
sure got it coming. I didn’t have any business getting 
mad. 

Mar. (graciously). You’re forgiven, Jack, before you 
ask it. 

Jack (still far from being from under her influence). 
But it’s a fact, you do make it look mighty hard for a fel¬ 
low to forget you. 

Mar. It will look a lot easier a month from now. 

Jack (with one of his rare smiles). You can prove 
that, can you ? 

Mar. Yes. I can prove it by three years of success¬ 
ful experience. 

Jack (reaching for the door). I guess she’s got the 
evidence, Marx. 

Marx. It’s beginning to look that way. (Exit Jack. 
Marx, humbly, after a bit of pause.) Will you wish 
me good luck? 

Mar. If you think you need it. (She goes toward 
the bed in a matter-of-fact way, smooths it out, and ar¬ 
ranges the pillows. Then, half playfully.) There you 
are, my brave rememberer. This is where you belong— 
until to-morrow. 

Marx (in mock forlornness). Down, Fido. 

(But he obeys her.) 

Mar. There. (She starts for the door.) 

Marx. But—Marion! Wish me good luck anyway! 

Mar. (at the door). Oh, to be sure. Good luck, 
Frank. Now, what are you going to do with it? 

(She stands with her back against the door, her hands 
on the door-knob, a favorite pose of hers. Her eyes 


THE FEVER WARD 45 

are saying something to Marx, hut he evidently 
doesn't see it.) 

Marx. I’m going to marry you with it. 

Mar. In spite of all the evidence? 

Marx. Yes.—Tell me, Marion—just tell me once 
more that you will wait for me. ( She gives him a strange 
answer: she solemnly shakes her head, “No.” Marx, 
miserably. ) Marion-! 

Mar. I’m going with you. (As Marx sits up like a 
jack-in-the-box, she uses the clause he has taught her, 
tone and all.) Down, Fido. 

Marx. With me? (She nods, sunnily.) But, Mar¬ 
ion—why, I can’t believe- 

Mar. Doubting my word already!—Or maybe you 
didn’t mean what you said about taking me to-morrow— 
if I loved you enough. 

Marx. Every word of it! 

Mar. Well,—I do. (Looking down.) And Dr. 
Sundberg has engaged another nurse to take my position 
to-morrow. 

Marx (glowing). You—you darling! 

Mar. When the right man does come, Frank, I can't 
let him go wandering off—and forget me, like the others. 

Marx. But you have kept saying that the right man 
won’t forget you- 

Mar. And now you know why he won’t—don’t you ? 

Marx (reaching out his hand). Marion! 

Mar. (severely). No, sir. My hand still hurts from 
the other two times. I’ll come in after I’m off duty, and 
we’ll—plan things all out. (The call-bell sounds—two 
brief rings.) There! Time’s up. 

Marx (lying back; happily). I’ll wager that’s Art! 

Mar. (she has opened the door; turns back and speaks 
more softly). No; it’s Jack. I know his ring. 

(She blows him a little kiss, and he returns one. She 
is gone, and the curtain falls upon Marx smiling at 
where she had been .) 


CURTAIN 











V 




>■ 


















SUNSHINE 


A Comedy in Three Acts. By Walter Ben Hare 

Four males, seven females. Scene, one simple exterior, easily ar¬ 
ranged with a small lot of potted plants and rustic furniture. This 
charming play was really written to order, to satisfy an ever growing 
demand for a comedy that could be used either as a straight play or 
as a musical comedy. The author has arranged a happy and real¬ 
istic blend of the two types of entertainment, and the catchy tunes 
which he has suggested should find favor in the amateur field. The 
story leads the audience a merry chase from snappy farce to real 
drama (with just a flavoring of the melodramatic) which modern 
audiences find so pleasing. Here we find a great character part in 
a popular baseball hero, who succeeds in making a home run in more 
ways than one, a wonderful leading lady role in the part of Mary; a 
hypochondriac, who finds his medicine most pleasant to the taste; 
an old maid who mourns the loss of her parrot, and a Sis Hopkins 
type of girl with the exuberance of spirit that keeps the audience on 
its mettle. The Major is a character of great possibilities and in 
the hands of a capable actor much can be made of it. Sunshine is 
the sort of play that will live for years*, as its very atmosphere is 
permeated with good will toward the world at large. We cannot 
too highly recommend this play, written by an author with scores 
of successes behind him and not a single failure. Royalty $10.00 for 
the first performance and $5.00 for each subsequent performance 
given by the same cast. 

Price, 50 cents. 


CHARACTERS 

Maudeeia McCann, aged ten. 

Mrs. Bunch McCann, of Detroit, the mother. 

Mrs. Soe Whippee, of Whipple’s Corners, Conn., the 
country lady. 

Miss Tessie Mitbord, the mental case. 

Mr. Juba K. Butternip, of Peoria, III, the old man. 

Miss Gregory, the nurse. 

Buddy Brady, of New York, the ball player. 

Major Keeeicott, the speculator. 

Jim Anthony, he’s engaged. 

Syevia Deane, she’s engaged. 

Mary, " Sunshine.” 

Boys and Gires. 

Scene: The lawn at Sunshine Sanitarium, near N«w Yori* City 
Act I.—Morning. 

Act II.—Afternoon. 

Act III.—Night. 


Time of playing: Two hours. 


STEP OUT—JACK! 

An Op&nistic Comedy in Three Acts. By Harry Osborne 

A successful vehicle for talented amateurs. Twelve males (can 
be played with less), five females. Costumes modern. Scenery, 
three simple interiors. Jack Rysdale is “ down and out.” All he 
has in the world are the clothes on his back and the love in his heart 
for the wealthy and beautiful Zoe Galloway. He dare not ask her 
to marry him until he has made his way in the world. Zoe loves 
him, and while the girls in New York do nearly everything else, they 
do not propose—yet. Jack’s fighting spirit is about gone when he 
meets a man named Wilder, who is a natural fighter and knows how 
to bring out the fighting qualities in others. From him Jack learns 
that he has a dangerous rival in Percy Lyons. He learns that if he 
is going to get anywhere in this world, he can’t stand in line and 
await his turn but must step out and “ go get it.” He learns more 
from Wilder in ten minutes than he absorbed in a whole year in 
college. So, figuratively speaking, he steps out, takes the middle of 
the road and “gives ’er gas.” Once started, nothing can stop him 
until he has attained his object. Every girl will fall in love with 
Jack and every man and boy will admire his pluck and courage. 
Zoe is a matrimonial prize on fourteen different counts, and her 
chum, Cynthia, a close second. Wilder is a regular man’s man who 
can convince any one who doesn’t wear ear muffs that black is 
white and vice-versa. Then there is Percy Lyons, who never stayed 
out very late, Clarence Galloway, a rich man’s son looking for a 
job, Buddie the office boy, who is broken-hearted if he misses a 
ball game, and Bernice Williams, who thinks she is a regular little 
Home Wrecker but isn’t. An artistic and box office success for 
clever amateurs. 

Act I.—Private Office of R. W. Wilder. 

Act II.—Library—John Galloway’s Home. 

Act III.—Rysdale’s office. 

Time: The present. 

Peace: New York City. 

Time of playing: Approximately two hours. 

Price, 50 cents .. Royalty, $10.00 

THE SHOW ACTRESS 

A Comedy in One Act. By J. C. McMullen 

Two males, four females. Costumes, country of the present day. 
Playing time about forty minutes. Scene, dining-room of the Martin 
Homestead, Hillville, Vt. A burlesque troupe is stranded in the 
little village of Hillville. Goldie, the star, is taken in by the Martins. 
Her adventures with the cow at milking time, and with the domestic 
cook-stove are a scream. She eventually restores the Mar¬ 
tins’ lost' daughter, captures the thief robbing the village bank and 
marries Zek’l, the bashful village constable. Full of action. All 
parts good, Goldie the lead, and Zek’l, the bashful lover, being 
particularly effective. 


Price, 25 cents. 



THE PLAYS OF A. W. PINERO 

Price, ©O cents each 

Ths Amazons*— Farce in Three Acts. 7 males, 5 females. Scenery, 
an exterior and an interior. Time, a full evening. Royalty, $io.co. * 

"Fll£ Cabinet IS/liniStcr *—Farce in Four Acts. 10 males, 9 females. 
Scenery, three interiors. Plays two hours and a half. Royalty, $ 10.0a 

The Big Dram. —Comedy in Four Acts. 12 males, 5 females. Sce¬ 
nery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. 

Dandy Dick*— harce in Three Acts. 7 males, 4 females. Scenery, 
two interiors. Plays two hours and a half. Royalty, $10.00. 

The Gay Lord Quex«— Comedy in Four Acts. 4 males, 10 females. 
Scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. 

His House in Order* —Comedy in Four Acts. 9 males, 4 females. 
Scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. 

The Hobby Horse. —Comedy in Three Acts. 10 males, 5 females* 
Scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Royalty, $10.00. Plays 2^hrs* 

Iris*-—Drama in Five Acts. 7 males, 7 females. Scenery, three inte 
riors. Plays a full evening. 

Lady Bountiful* — Play in Four Acts. S males, 7 females. Scenery, 
four interiors. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $ 10.00 for each performance. 

Letty* —Drama in Four Acts and an Epilogue. 10 males, 5 females. 
Scenery, complicated. Plays a full evening. 

Fhe Magistrate*— Farce in Three Acts. 12 males, 4 females. Scenery, 
all interiors. Plays two hours and a half. Royalty, $10.00. 

Mid-Channel. —Play in Four Acts. 6 males, 5 females. Scenery, 
.three interiors. Plays two and a half hours. Royalty, $10.00. 

The Notorious Mrs* Ebbsmith* —Drama in Four Acts. 8 males, 

5 females. Scenery, all interiors. Plays a full evening. 

Tile Profligate*— -Play in Four Acts. 7 males, 5 females. Scenery, 
three interiors. Right of performance reserved. Plays a full evening. 

The Schoolmistress*— Farce in Three Acts. 9 males, 7 females. 
Scenery, three interiors. Royalty, $10.00 for each performance. 

The Second Mrs* Tanqueray* —Play in Four Acts, 8 males, 5 
females. Scenery, three interiors. Acts a full evening. 

Sweet Lavender*— Comedy in Three Acts. 7 males, 4 females. 
Scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.00. 

The Thunderbolt* —Comedy in Four Acts. 10 males, 9 females, j 
Scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved. 

The Times*— Comedy in Four Acts. 6 males, 7 females. Scene, a 
single interior. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.00. 

The Weaker Sex*— Comedy in Three Acts. 8 males, 8 females. 
Scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $io.oa 

A Wife Without a Smile*— Comedy in Three Acts. 5 males, 4 fe¬ 
males. Scene, a single interior. Royalty, $10.00. Plays a full evening. 

Costumes modern in aU cases. 

BAKER* Hamilton Place, Boston, Mas&> 






















THE WILLIAM WARREN 

Price, 25 cenl 

As You Like It* —Comedy in Five A 
males, 4 females. Based on the prom 
Camille* —Drama in Five Acts. Fron 
by M. Aldrich. 9 males, 5 females, 
popular play. 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



0 016 103 888 fl 




latuir ui uia 


Caste*— -An original Comedy in Three Acts. By T. W. Robertson. 4 
males, 3 females. The famous Boston Museum prompt-book. 

Ingomar* —Play in Five Acts. By M. Lovell. 13 males, 3 females. 
Printed from the prompt-book of Julia Marlowe, giving all her stage- 
business. 

London Assurance*—Comedy in Five Acts. By Dion 1.. Boucicault. 
10 males, 3 females. The Boston Museum version of this famous 
comedy. 

Macbeth* —Tragedy in Five Acts. By W. Shakespeare. 23 males, 4 
females. The version formerly used at the old Boston Museum. 

Mary Stuart* —Tragedy in Five Acts. From the German of Schiller. 
13 males, 4 females. Printed from the prompt-book of Mme. Modjeska. 

The Merchant of Venice* —Comedy in Five Acts. By Wm. Shake¬ 
speare. 17 males, 3 females. A new acting version based on the 
prompt-book of the late Henry Irving. 

A Midsummer Night's Dream, —Comedy in Three Acts. By 
W. Shakespeare. 13 males, 10 females. An arrangement of this play 
for schools and colleges. 

Much Ado About Nothing. — Comedy in Five Acts. By W. 
Shakespeare. 17 males, 4 females. Arranged by Mr. Winthrop Ames. 

Our Boys*— Comedy in Three Acts. By H. J. Byron. 6 males, 4 fe¬ 
males. Arranged by Frank E. Fowle. 

Richelieu*— -Play in Five Acts. By Sir E. B. Lytton. 15 males, 2 fe¬ 
males. This version follows closely the version of Mr. Edwin Booth. 

The Rivals*— Comedy in Five Acts. By R. B. Sheridan. 9 males, 5 
females. Printed from the prompt-copy used at the Boston Museum. 

The School for Scandal*—* Comedy in Five Acts. By R. B. Sher¬ 
idan. 12 males, 4 females. The Boston Museum version. 

A Scrap of Paper*— Comedy in Three Acts. From the French of 
Sardou by J. Falgrave Simpson. 6 males, 6 females. The Boston 
Museum version of this delightful piece. 

She Stoops to Conquer*— Comedy in Five Acts. By O. Goldsmith. 
15 males, 4 females. Printed from the Boston Museum prompt-book. 

The Silver Spoon*— Comedy in Four Acts. By J. S. Jones. 10 males, 
9 females. A revised version of this old ** hit n of the period before the war. 

Twelfth Night OR, What You Wru—-Comedy in Five Acts. By 
Wm. Shakespeare, so males, 3 females. A new acting version of this 
comedy, based on the prompt-book of Mbs Julia Marlowe. 


Costumes if the period in ait oases. Scenery usually rather elaborate. 


BAKER, Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass* 


R«HO «V6RV IURRUY CO., BOSTON 


18207 


















































